Pissing Off the Alliance
The so-called “golden hour” had passed, taking with it his body’s initial numbness. Flat on his back as he was, Dorian could feel the rising protest of injured shoulders and bruised ribs, and the minor tearing sensation at his scalp from being hauled up by the hair. But of course, the main event was radiating outward from his right temple. He’d taken a moment to analyze the wound. The right zygomatic bone was definitely fractured, cast adrift from it’s upper and lower moorings to his skull. A subtle push with his fingers would add pressure to his right eye, confirming that the orbital floor was also broken. For the moment, that was all his fingertips and senses could tell him. The ultrasound, a parting gift from Dr. Aiello, would offer a more complete diagnostic opportunity, but he was loathe to produce it in front of the two Alliance soldiers who were busily ransacking the infirmary. Instead, he opted for more singing. “With yah long blond hair And yah eyes of blue, The only thing Ah evah got from you Was sorrow…..sorrow.” “Shut up,” a soldier barked. “Could y’all help me?” Dorian asked. “Somebody get that bedpan? Ah have tah pee like a racehorse.” The soldier came into view, all purple body armor and chinstrap helmet. “Might’s well piss your pants,” he growled. “Why you in here?” Dorian closed the right eye. “A difference of opinion with two of tha locals,” he slurred. “Ah thought tah keep mah possessions. They,” he offered a lift of his palm, “took an opposing view.” Sensing a potential for more booty, the soldier probed his vest pockets. “Hěn nán chéngwéi nǐ” he shrugged to emphasize the flippant judgment. The pulse rifle pressed beneath Dorian’s chin as the shakedown became more aggressive. In short order, the vest was ripped open, it’s buttons skittering to the deck as gloved hands pawed its’ inner pockets. “Sumbitches couldn’t a took ever’thing,” the purple belly growled. “Let’s check them back pock…aw, ”Mǎ tā mā de wǒ liǎng cì!” he swore at the darkening stain as it spread outward from Dorian’s crotch. “You fuckin’ pissed yerself!” “Told yah Ah had tah,” Dorian chuckled as the weapon jabbed at his chin. “Yah gave me permission.” The raider made a show of bringing his gun to bear. “How’s ‘bout I give you permission to die?” “Mmmm, that’d be a sweet peach. Proceed, sir.” Before the gob smacked soldier could manufacture a response, his cohort joined in. “Let him be, Evans. We got work to do. Let’s go.” Evans, the soldier, nodded. “Yeah…lookit this piss poor medbay. Stupid sumbitch’s gonna die anyway. No need to waste a shot.” Having delivered his notion of the last word, the soldier turned to stalk out of the infirmary. “Thank yah fah tha diagnosis, mistah Evans” Dorian said as the pair departed. He shifted slightly; the hidden stash of both guns, his knife, and the pocket watch were nigh uncomfortable beneath the small of his back. But, he’d managed to hold onto his possessions despite an Alliance search. “What price, dignity?” the dentist managed a soft chuckle as the fluid warmth settled into his clothing. Alone again, he returned to his task…the challenge of staying awake until he could truly diagnose the magnitude of his head wound. The torsemide dosage had been helpful…lord knew the strong urge to urinate brought on by the diuretic had kept him focused. But that defense was spent to ward off more government thievery. His options thus reduced, Dorian mounted the final bulwark. “Yah nevah do Whatcha know yah oughtta. Somethin’ tells me Yah tha devil’s daughter…sorrow…sorrow.”